


One Two Three

by DoreyG



Category: St Trinian's (2007 2009)
Genre: Anger Management, F/F, Mornings are the work of the devil, future!fic, they're both in their twenties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:13:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes she <i>really</i> hates Annabelle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Two Three

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amaresu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaresu/gifts).



Sometimes she _really_ hates Annabelle.

“Have you got everything?”

At six in the morning, for instance - barely awake and already late for work. Stamping around the bedroom with half closed eyes, one heel on and hair still tangled around her head.

…While Annabelle watches from the bed, wearing an obnoxious smirk and nothing else, “Verity?”

“ _What_?”

Sometimes she really, _really_ hates Annabelle.

“I _asked_ ,” especially when she’s using that sing-song voice, and resting her hands in her lap, and looking _calm_ and _unbothered_ in a way that’s unfair at any time let _alone_ at six in the bloody morning when everybody sensible is firmly asleep, “have you got everything?”

“I’ve barely got m’brain,” she can still only glare in reply – even as she trips over her own feet, or Annabelle’s discarded shirt (which is _very_ likely), and painfully _slams_ her fist into the dresser, “Let alone anything else.”

“Your lunch?” …Even as Annabelle carries on, hands still in her lap and smile still _completely_ unbothered – in a way that bellows puppies and rainbows and other such disgusting things, “so you don’t get hungry, obviously, in between all those meetings.”

“Entirely pointless,” she corrects absently, while also trying to project an injured _what the hell_ , as she eases back and cradles her poor hand to her chest, “you didn’t say entirely pointless.”

“I only do that when Kelly is around, don’t be _silly_ ,” Annabelle just tuts, with the (in)appropriate amount of scorn and _no_ concern whatsoever, “and what about your phone?”

She scowls.

She _scowls_ , continues cradling her hand and swaying vaguely on her single heel, “what about my phone?”

“You _can’t_ forget your phone,” Annabelle _smiles_ \- right in the face of her scowl, right in the face of _everything_ like she doesn’t care a single bit, “it does a _thousand_ things. Like texting and calling and networking and tweeting…”

Ugh. She forgoes scowling this time, skips right up to _snarling_ with quite a bit of passion.

“…Not to mention your I-Pod,” Annabelle, yet again, doesn’t react. Doesn’t twitch, look faintly abashed or even _bat an eyelid_ , “of course.”

“Oh,” she says flatly, still snarling absently on every word – her hands balled into heartfelt fists in an almost _casual_ way (like she could be at the _beach_ sipping a _martini_ ), “My _I-Pod_?”

“Your lovely I-Pod, can’t leave the house without it!” Incredibly casual, in fact. _Astoundingly_ casual. So casual that she can only focus on the bunch of her muscles, the feeling of her nails sliding over her palms, the sudden desire to sink her fists into _anything_ , “And, of course, if you’re going to take your I-Pod you’ll have to take your trainers, and that means that when it gets to lunchtime you can also go out to the park and- _Verity_.”

Anything. Anything at _all_. Be it wall, cushion, animal or _Person_. Anything, truly. _Anything_ -

…She blinks.

Stares down at herself: the clench of her fists and the bunch of her muscles and her nails still sliding over her palms. Blinks again… Doesn’t, oddly enough, feel like easing her fists.

Huh.

_Huh_ -

“…Breathe slowly,” until Annabelle finally takes an interest, sits up with actually concerned eyes, “remember what Mirza said, _Verity_. Breathe deeply, think of calm things, count to ten.”

“I-“ she snaps uncertainly anyway, still with muscles bunched.

“Please?” …Annabelle just continues to look concerned. Her hands fiddling with the sheets in her lap, her lip bitten between her teeth, her hair free and finger-tangled around her shoulders in a way that’s practically (probably, they know each other far too well) _intentional_.

…It’s enough.

_One_.

She still remembers the days when it wouldn’t have been enough, when she wouldn’t have listened to _anything_ , when she _would’ve_ let her fists (or feet, or hockey stick – she was a sadly inventive child) do the thinking and laughed madly afterwards.

_Two_.

It wasn’t that long ago, after all. Under ten years since they were both seventeen, facing each other down across a hockey pitch, and she was so _angry_. The terror of the school, the queen, the high bully who happily tortured everybody else with a gleeful bounce and no regrets.

_Three_.

…They really weren’t happy days.

_Four_.

Not that she realized that when they were actually happening, but… They _weren’t_. They really weren’t. They so clearly weren’t, in hindsight, that it was a slap in the face when she emerged from the cloistered halls of secondary school (public school at that) to face the actual world outside.

_Five_.

For she had no friends outside those halls. No friends at _all_. And people at university, a thousand geeks and nerds and miscellaneous losers suddenly told that it was _okay_ to be exactly themselves, weren’t very keen on becoming minions through the old methods (torture and terror and so many torturously terrible things).

_Six_.

And so she was lonely.

_Seven_.

_Deservedly_ lonely, perhaps. _Deservedly_ doomed to lurk the corridors by herself, to stand alone in the lunch queue, to have a practical forcefield around her at any and all bars she chose to frequent - to be a _reject_ like all the girls she’d ever made feel stupid, inferior, _worthless_ …

_Eight_.

…Until she’d met Annabelle again, sitting in one of those bars and sipping a whisky like it belonged in her hand. Until Annabelle had taken one look at her, and offered to buy her a drink. Until Annabelle had followed her back to her room, and pressed her down into the mattress with smiling eyes and curving mouth. Until Annabelle had stuck around for several months, without showing any sign of wanting to be far away. Until Annabelle had influenced her, largely unintentionally (or at least that’s the lie she’s often been told with an innocent smile), to actually _see_ somebody instead of continuing her useless vendetta against the world.

_Nine_.

Mirza.

_Ten_.

Mirza with her calm eyes, her bright smile, her large oak desk and comfortable cushions. Mirza without a white coat, a judgemental stare, a slight sneer when she confessed her very deepest fears. Mirza with her tips, her encouraging nods, her _passionate_ desire to get to the heart of everything.

_Eleven_.

…Mirza with her counting to _ten_.

Um.

She hesitates for a long moment before she blinks open her eyes, almost shuts them again at the dawn light (seriously, _ow_ )… 

But keeps them open at Annabelle, still sitting worriedly on the bed ”…Verity?”

“Yes, Annabelle?” She replies softly, easing her fists and stretching out her fingers – listening absently for their satisfying crack.

“Did you breathe deeply?”

“Yes,” there’s a long pause, mainly spent staring down at the stretching of her fingers for communication is still apparently a _big_ (huge, rivalling blue whales and elephants and other such things) issue, before she can even vaguely articulate the last part of that sentence, “sorry.”

“Don’t be _sorry_. I’m the one that kept pushing and not paying attention and-“ a _big_ issue for all of them, apparently, as Annabelle halts, draws in a nervous breath and starts fiddling with the sheet again “…I want to ask more questions now. But then I’d be doing it again, wouldn’t I?”

She opens her mouth anyway, for they might as well _try_ -

“ _I’m_ sorry.”

…Closes it again, awkwardly. Contemplates biting her lip, _Wishes_ that she had something to fiddle with – eventually just settles for huffing out a sigh and stumbling vaguely towards the bed on her one heel.

Annabelle looks up at her with wide eyes “…I am.”

“I know,”

“I _Really_ am.”

She sighs again, in a heartfelt way. Stumbles even closer to the bed, somehow manages to lose that single heel and ends up flopping across Annabelle’s legs in an undignified way – her hair fluffed all around, her face buried in the sheets like it should’ve been for hours yet.

“…I-“

“I _know_ , Annabelle,” she revels in it for a moment more before she spins over, rests the back of her head on Annabelle’s knees and stares at the uncertain face above her (and she’s glad that she’s no longer above Annabelle, she _really_ is, for neither of them are those sort of people anymore and neither of them have been for a very long time) “…We were both at fault. You pushed, yes, but it wasn’t intentional. I shouldn’t have reacted to it so harshly.”

There’s a long pause.

Annabelle’s hand reaches out to slide timidly through her hair, pauses at the roots for a long moment before working its way back up, “it wasn’t harsh, not _really_.”

She huffs softly, trusts that it conveys her opinion.

“It _wasn’t_ ,” Annabelle’s hand just keeps moving, slightly firmer as time goes on – working out all her knots in a wonderfully soothing way, “You would’ve _screamed_ a year ago, or punched a wall, or done something violent and complicated which would’ve required a mad rush for bandages. You’re getting _better_ , Verity.”

She huffs again… Softer this time, “am I?”

“Yes-“

“Really?”

“ _Yes_ ,” and it’s Annabelle’s turn to huff now, her fingers starting to multitask on her scalp as they continue to comb, “much, much better. _Astoundingly_ better… If that even makes sense. Kelly sees it, and approves. As does your father. And even my _aunt_.”

…Sometimes she really, _really_ loves Annabelle.

“What high praise,” she manages, almost starting to _smirk_.

…And receiving a light smack for her pains, yes. But one followed by an _answering_ smirk, a pretty one, so she can’t take too much offence – can only lean up, draw Annabelle down into a kiss that has both of them purring within seconds.

And if that happens in only seconds…

Sometimes (always) she really _loves_ Annabelle.


End file.
